


Hiatus

by LaVieEnRose



Series: The One Where Justin Loses His Hearing [76]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Allergies, Angst, Asthma, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 17:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16538756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVieEnRose/pseuds/LaVieEnRose
Summary: S3. Justin has an asthma attack from Ethan's cat, and Brian's getting sick of waiting. Requires no knowledge of the series.





	Hiatus

**Author's Note:**

> y'all I don't even know what happened here.

A million years ago, when Justin was living with the fiddler, his eyes were always swollen.

It's not as if I was keeping watch over him, or anything like that, and honestly that's not even me being in denial here. I was trying my fucking hardest not to goddamn look at him at all, so there was no careful monitoring of the boy's condition happening, not at that point. But he still worked at the diner and I still had to live in this town, so I saw him, and I did notice, after it was literally _every time,_ that Justin's eyes were always swollen.

I was paying my bill at the counter one afternoon and Kiki came over to Debbie and started whispering, if you can call it whispering when it's as loud as most people shouting. “I don't think he's happy with the new boyfriend,” Kiki said. 

“Who?” Deb said.

Kiki gave me a long, pointed look I ignored, then turned back to Deb. “He always looks like he's just been crying, have you noticed?” she said. “I think it's the boyfriend.”

“It's his allergies,” I said, drawing it out so I'd sound nice and bored.

They both had the nerve to look at me like they hadn't known I was there.

“He's not crying,” I said. “He has allergies.” I took my change back from Debbie. “He's perfectly happy.”

**

The weather cooled down, though, and Justin's allergies didn't hibernate like they were supposed to. At first when the temperature dropped and Justin was sneezing every damn time I saw him I assumed he'd caught a cold, and it brought back uncomfortable memories of him in the loft the winter before, curled up impossibly small under a blanket on the couch. I figured he probably didn't have much cash for anything other than essentials, so I bought a bag of those nasty cherry cough drops he loves and if I ate at the diner without any fucking rubberneckers I'd leave a few with my tip. He always thanked me.

A month passed, though, and the sneezing never stopped, and the swelling around his eyes didn't go down, and I'd hear him coughing in the diner's back room. His shift ended one day while I was still at the diner, and I tapped my fingers on the table as he left, then mumbled, “Fuck it,” and got up and followed him out to the sidewalk. “Justin?” I said, over the bells on the door tinkling behind me. His name felt strange in my mouth, and I wondered how long it had been since I'd said it out loud. 

He turned around and gave me a vague smile, rubbing one eye as he walked over. He'd done the poster for me at this point, showed up at the Carnivale, all that jazz, and we were friendly to each other. 

His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and his skin was pale where it wasn't flushed pink under his nose. His hair was longer by then and his bangs never lay right. I'd given up trying not to look at him. 

I put my hands in my pockets. “I'm going to ask you a personal question, okay?”

He bit back a grin. “I'm sure I'm powerless to stop you.” He was wheezing softly, but he usually does when it's cold. I didn't think much of that at the time.

“Do you need money?”

He shook his head, which honestly wasn't what I had been expecting, which was something closer to _go to hell, Brian_ and a determined stomp away that would absolutely confirm that he _did_ need money. This...maybe meant he actually didn't.

“Okay...” I said. “You can afford your meds and everything?”

Now he just looked confused. “Yeah, I have insurance through school, remember? It has drug coverage.”

“Oh. Right.”

“I pay like twenty dollars a month for everything.” The look on his face dared me to ask him if he had twenty dollars.

I felt fucking impossibly awkward. “Okay. Well...good. Glad you're doing well.”

“Thanks. You too. I'll see you around.”

Ethan called me eight hours later.

**

The call was from Justin's phone. Otherwise I probably wouldn't have picked up.

It wasn't the first time he'd called me in the middle of the night. The bashing was only just over a year behind us at this point, and he was still not okay in ways that took me goddamn ages to even start to see. Until the last month or so of us living together, the nightmares had been mostly under control. Maybe once every two weeks he'd have a whole dragged out hyperventilating affair, and in-between he'd have mornings he'd be shaky and out of sorts for a while, but it was nothing compared to the shit we'd endured when he first moved in. And when he started losing his hearing, though obviously that was a ways down the line.

Though I am not going to pretend I don't look back on those phone calls he'd make when he was living with Ethan, when he'd call me crying from the bathroom because I was the only one who could convince him not to hurt himself to try to shut up the screaming inside of him, and remember when he'd asked me to repeat things. I'd assumed he was just panicking and not paying attention. And maybe that's all it was.

He's always hated phone calls. He's always zoned out during conversations and it's always been hard to get his attention. 

Now, it's possible those are just personality quirks. The narrative is that Justin didn't start losing his hearing until his twenties. And maybe he didn't.

And it's not as if it matters.

But yes, sometimes I wonder.

Anyway, when my phone rang at three in the morning and I groped for it on the nightstand and saw his number, I took a deep breath and sat up, prepared to talk him down from a panic attack. It had been a while, but it's not really something you forget how to do. I just needed a minute to steel myself for him crying, honestly. You don't get used to that.

I picked up the phone and said, “Evening, Sunshine.”

But there was no panicked breathing on the other line, just a weird sort of whistle in the background, and then a voice that was definitely _not_ Justin's said, “Brian?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“It's Ethan.”

I got out of bed. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I think something's wrong with Justin.”

“You _think_ something's wrong with Justin?” I pulled on a pair of jeans. 

“Okay...something's wrong with Justin.”

“Well, where the fuck is he? Put him on the phone.”

“He can't...he's not...” And then I pieced together what that whistling in the background was.

And really, really hoped that it wasn't, because I had never heard him sound that bad, not when he'd fucked up his lungs sobbing through the worst of the panic attacks, not the time he had the brilliant idea to help Debbie rake leaves, not when he'd come down with goddamn walking pneumonia the year before. “Ethan.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that his breathing?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck.”

“His inhaler's not working,” Ethan said. “I don't know what—”

“What the fuck do you mean, you don't know what to do? It's pretty goddamn straightforward, you need to take him to the fucking hospital.”

“He won't go.”

“Yeah, he hates it. Tell him I say he has to go.”

Ethan says, “The student insurance doesn't cover ambulances, and we don't have a car.” _We._ “Can you just—”

“Text me your address, and do not fucking kill him before I get there,” I growled, and hung up.

**

Ethan's building was about a sneeze away from collapse, so, you know, risky bet bringing Justin here, and that was before I'd even seen the inside. Ethan had unlocked the door for me, sensitive little fellow that he is, and the first thing I saw when I came in was a fucking cat pacing the floor.

Now, let me get one thing out of the way, because this is true and I'm going to assume something you wouldn't have guessed about me; I'm actually quite fond of cats. Michael and Debbie had one when we were in high school, this ancient all black tomcat named Doug, and I thought he was the shit. They're affectionate and they're clean and they mind their own fucking business, unlike dogs always trying to worm their way into your crotch. What's not to like?

Well, Justin—who also likes them, because he has never had any innate sense whatsoever of what's good for him, and thank my fucking stars for that—is fucking mind-numbingly allergic, to the extent that he once pet a stray outside the diner—like I said—and his entire arm broke out in hives. God only fucking knows how his liver hadn't failed from the fucking astronomical doses of his allergy meds he must have been taking to survive living with one.

And if that weren't enough, the entire place was carpeted, which Justin cannot do, and it was a fucking dusty pig sty, and there was a splotch of mold on the ceiling and...I mean, Christ, do I need to go on? 

What the fucking goddamn fuck was he thinking living here? 

So I was all piss and vinegar as I stormed into the bedroom, and maybe you'd think the sight of little Sunshine wheezing his brains out would lessen that but yeah, no. And God, he was a fucking mess, too. He was sitting on the side of the bed with his arms wrapped all the way around his chest, and Ethan was pacing in front of him, bothering him with questions he couldn't answer about did he want some fucking water or something.

“Help has arrived,” I said. Ethan looked up and made that _Oh thank God_ face that men usually do when they see me, but Justin did't even react, which didn't give me a good feeling about how aware he still was of what was around him because...I mean, say what you want about Sunshine's little time off, here, but we can always get something out of each other.

I came around to his side of the bed and crouched in front of him and lifted his chin until he met my eyes. Sweat was beading on his forehead from the effort of fucking getting air in, and his breathing was choked and wet and squeezed to almost nothing, and he had enough hives that I wished I'd brought the fucking epipen. He didn't even look scared, just...resigned.

“No,” I told him. “None of that. You are not dying in this shithole.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, dying?” Ethan said. “No one's dying. Nobody's fucking dying.”

“Does he have an off switch?” I asked Justin, taking his pulse.

Justin tried to suck in a breath, and I can't pretend that watching him struggle like that wasn't making my own chest feel tight. You try fucking listening to how hard he has to work to do shit that should be easy and not have feelings about it. 

“We're going to the hospital now,” I said. “Don't give me any shit.”

He just nodded, and...you have to understand what a big fucking deal it is for Justin to not put up a fight about going to the hospital. How goddamn terrible he has to feel to give in to that. 

I nodded for Ethan to come around to Justin's other side. I leaned into Justin's ear, growled, “You have a lot of fucking explaining to do,” gave him a rough kiss on the cheek, and we hauled him off to the emergency room.

**

It took, and I say this as objectively as possible, a fucking scary amount of intervention that night before Justin was breathing again. I was stuck filling out paperwork for most of it, guessing at shit like Justin's medication dosages and current weight—he'd definitely lost some—while Ethan fussed around like a worried fucking mother. Which, speaking of: I was not calling Jennifer. That was his fucking responsibility now. 

Every couple of minutes I'd stop to ask myself why the fuck I was still here, but I never ended up leaving. The doctors were fucking worried about Justin and ended up admitting him for the night, and it took all these fucking antihistamines and steroids and ages on oxygen before his lungs were in working order again, and I wasn't even with him for most of it because...I don't know. Ethan was.

But eventually Ethan left—to call Jennifer—and Justin and I were alone. He had an IV and a mask over his mouth and he looked very young, sitting there with his chin on his knees, breathing so carefully like he was afraid it was going to be snatched away from him again any moment.

“Are you going to yell at me?” he said.

“You bet your fucking ass I'm going to yell at you.”

“I'm really sick. Can you do it later?”

“No, I didn't do it when I was at that fucking shithole apartment, this _is_ the later. What the fucking fuck were you thinking?”

“I—”

“You have no _fucking_ business thinking you can survive living in that fucking mold-infested shithole with a goddamn cat. I ought to have fucking killed you myself. You looked me in the eyes today and told me you were fine.”

“I told you I could afford my medicine,” he said. He was so hoarse. I shouldn't have been yelling at him right then. 

“Don't you fucking split hairs with me, Sunshine. I was under the fucking understanding you weren't being a total goddamn fucking moron, but—”

“Under what fucking understanding?” I said. “What, when you chose Ethan as my fucking babysitter? I didn't get your approval. Why is it any of your fucking business where I live?”

“You know exactly why it's my fucking business and don't you give me that shit.” 

Fuck him for acting like this was over. Like this could ever be over. 

But he said, “I know, I know,” and then wheezed his way into an absolutely fucking wrecked bout of coughing. I got him some water.

“This isn't a fucking joke,” I said. “I've never known you to be this goddamn reckless. I have half a mind to call your fucking shrink and tell her you're suicidal, because I can't think of any other fucking reason you'd think to live in a place like that.”

“Fuck off, Brian,” he said, so tired.

“What did you think was going to happen? I am honestly asking you. You thought what, true love could conquer all, is that it? Even allergies? Who raised you to be this fucking stupid, because I know it wasn't your mother and it sure as fuck wasn't me.”

He sneezed pathetically. 

“Answer me,” I said.

“Answer _what?_ ”

“If this is over,” I said. “If this has been enough to snap you out of your little fucking fairy tale and you're ready to stop fucking playing _Leave it to Beaver_ with allergies or whatever you want to call this horror show of a home life you've concocted.”

He blinked at me. “What, you think I'm going to leave him because I had an asthma attack? I'll figure out a solution, Brian.”

“You know what the fucking solution is.”

“What, go back to waiting for you to spare me a fucking glance and feeling like shit all the time?”

“How exactly the fuck do you feel right now?”

“It's the apartment!” he yelled, or as close as he could. “It's not the fucking relationship! I'm not taking this as some fucking sign from God, and you can cut it the fuck out with lecturing me like I fucking owe you some—”

“Owe me what, your fucking health? Your goddamn life?”

He pinched his nose.

“If you're honestly telling me you're going back to that fucking death trap because you want to prove to me how fucking goddamn independent you are—”

“I am not proving fucking anything to you, Jesus Christ! This has nothing to do with you!”

“This was cute at first,” I said. “You and the fiddler, you've got the dark and light thing going on, you're all fresh-faced and full of dreams, you're fucking artists, it's very sweet, I get it.”

“Fuck you,” he said.

“All I fucking asked is if it was over. You think he's going to choose you over the furball?”

“And all I fucking did was tell you you were fucking crazy for thinking this was going to end things. It's not a fucking experiment, Brian.”

“Oh, so you're happy? That's what you're telling me?”

He set his jaw. “He loves me.”

“Of course he fucking loves you!” I said. “He doesn't fucking know you!” Fuck this kid. Fuck him to the fucking ground. “He's known you for five fucking minutes, he loves your smile and your ass and your fucking spaghetti bolognese, you want to see how long that lasts? Wait until you've been in his fucking face for two years, you won't take no for a goddamn answer on the pettiest fucking shit, you leave your fucking shit everywhere and you scare him half to death every time he fucking blinks, wait until he fully fucking internalizes what a reckless goddamn shit you are and what bad fucking decisions you're so fucking convinced you're mature enough to make, you wait and see if he loves you when he's been waking up beside you for a fucking year and falling asleep next to you every fucking night and he's watching you walk out the fucking door and scraping you off the fucking floor of a goddamn parking garage, you let me know if he's still fucking buying you roses.”

Justin wheezed and watched me.

“No one should be buying you fucking roses,” I said.

He swallowed and whispered, “Brian, I'm too fucking sick for this.”

“I know.”

“If you have something to say, can you just...”

I was so goddamn tired at this point, you have to understand.

I said, “I just want to know if you're ready to come home.”

He looked at me for a long time.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

I ran my hand over my mouth. “Okay. Well you're not going back to that fucking apartment.”

Ethan came in and went straight to Justin and hugged him for a long time. Justin clung, but he watched me over his shoulder. 

“How do you feel?” Ethan said, pressing a kiss to Justin's forehead. “God, you scared the shit out of me.”

“I'm okay,” Justin said. “I swear this hardly ever happens. But...we have to make some changes or it's going to happen again.”

“Of course,” Ethan said. “First thing tomorrow I'm going to call about getting the place cleaned. Like really cleaned. Do you think Daphne would let us crash at her place while that's getting done?”

“He can't live with a cat,” I said.

Ethan looked at me. Justin looked down.

“Look at him,” I said. “He can't live with a cat. It's amazing it took him this long before this happened. He's been walking around looking like shit for months. So what are you going to do?”

He wasn't going to give up the cat for a guy he'd been fucking for a few months. 

Ethan kissed next to Justin's eye. “Baby, of course. My mom can take Wolfie.”

“I'm sorry,” Justin said.

“Shh, no. You should have told me. Why didn't you tell me?”

 _He can't,_ I wanted to scream, but I didn't. It wasn't my place anymore.

God. He was giving up the cat. 

Goddamn it. He fucking loved him. 

I left the hospital.


End file.
